Eye of the Storm
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: Even as the storm of the First War ravaged Azeroth, Stormwind itself remained its eye. But Lothar saw what Llane didn't-the eye was closing...


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**Eye of the Storm**

Red, green and black. And Anduin Lothar was looking at all three colours.

Specifically, green was the colour of the orcs, their bodies strewn before Stormwind like leaves after the type of wind that gave the city its name. Red, the colour of their blood, staining the grass. And black, a bird of carrion, picking out the eye of one of the greenskins that hadn't been pierced by an arrow. Not as common as the red and green, but where one raven flew, others would follow. As surely as the Horde threw itself against the walls of Stormwind, just as surely would scavengers follow in their wake.

Which served the Lion of Azeroth just fine. They had far too many of their own to bury before moving on to their enemy.

There was little sound coming from the inside of the walls, Lothar reflected, as he turned away from the carnage of the field to see carnage wrought upon Stormwind's structures. Time and time again the orcs had assaulted the capital, each assault becoming more organized and consequently, more costly for the defenders. Never had the walls been breached, and as long as men with stout hearts manned them, never would. According to the proclamations of King Llane at least. Right now though, looking at his people's hope dry up like a well in summer, Lothar suspected that the king could have declared that Judgement Day had come and it would have hardly made any difference.

_But at least in the end of all things, we might be judged fairly. The Horde makes no distinction whatsoever..._

Lothar turned his attention back to the walls themselves, looking down a battlement as he began walking down it. He uttered no word to his exhausted men, even those who had got their hands on rum through the rapidly growing black market. They deserved better than generic praise for their actions, but anything more than that might lead to outright lies or embellishments. Had they done a good job? No more or less than the other dozen or so times Stormwind had been besieged? Was there hope for Azeroth? Maybe. Was the Light on their side? He wasn't a holy man, so he didn't know nor care. Did the king have any idea of how to break the Horde's back besides a fortress mentality mindset? "Watch your tongue lest you lose it," would have been the knight's reply, but all in all, he was beginning to ask the same question.

"Well done men, well done indeed. Stormwind owes you a great debt."

And maybe, since Llane was playing the morale game, he could ask the question as well.

"Ah, Anduin, greetings," the king of Azeroth declared, walking past a swordsman grieving over his amputated leg and focussing entirely on his old friend. "Another day, another battle. And once again, thanks to you, another victory."

Lothar nodded grimly, reflecting that for people like the man the king had just passed, "victory" would have probably been the last word in their minds. It was eerie, really, looking at Llane's spotless armour and tunic whilst his own was bloodied and dented, reduced to something designed only to keep him alive. Even the king's ceremonial sword stood out, Lothar's still soaked in blood that his hands couldn't clean, soaked with the red liquid in turn.

"There'll be a celebration of course," Llane continued. "I shall expect you at Stormwind Keep of course."

"That...may be problematic, sire."

"Of course, I understand," Llane smiled. "But the cellars need clearing of dwarven mead, and I'll need your bladder to help store it in another location."

Lothar matched his friend's smile to the barest minimum. "I'll keep that in mind, sire."

Llane was no tyrant, nor was he a stranger. Yet as the two men continued to walk down the battlements, the king passing on common blessings to his subjects, Lothar nevertheless found it difficult to speak his mind. Why not have dwarven _warriors _rather than mead? Why not take the fight to the orcs rather than let them keep Azeroth on the defensive? Why not-...

"Take heart, men, take heart. The storm has passed! We-..."

"No sire, it hasn't. We're just in the eye of it."

Llane stopped mid-sentence, glancing at the knight with bemusement. Well, too bad.

"We're in the eye of the storm," Lothar growled, glancing out towards the mountains whose squalls gave Stormwind its name. "Its walls have moved away from us, but we'll be hit by them again. And again. And again until our own walls come down."

"Anduin-..."

"Sire, you _must _see this! We can't stay in the eye! We have to move out from the eye, through the walls of the storm, and attack its source!"

There, he'd said it. Dungeons, dragons, even a maze with monsters in it, Lothar didn't care what his hypothetical punishment might be. Whatever Llane thought of him, whatever their friendship became, he had to speak his mind about how the conflict was being conducted.

It didn't help when the king of Azeroth outright laughed at him.

"I see the day's been hard on you," Llane said, slapping Lothar on a piece of his shoulder-guard that had escaped being drenched in orc and human blood. "Take it easy, Anduin. A few hours rest will do you good."

"Sire-..."

"The Light is with us Anduin. Remember that, and Stormwind will never fall."

And that was that. The blessings of the king to his champion, said king now moving off by himself to give his blessings to lesser mortals. Mortals who Lothar knew could cease to be mortal sooner than he'd like, becoming...whatever one became in the Hereafter.

But maybe they were fortunate. They could escape the storm.

And its rapidly closing eye...


End file.
